


Three, and Not Just Two

by CoraRochester



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Steve's touching lack of emotional awareness, featuring a lot of dog hair, inspired by silentwalrus's Daisypuff the Chow art, this is just... 5.5K of doggy-induced happiness, very brief and non-graphic mention of past animal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:03:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraRochester/pseuds/CoraRochester
Summary: Steve tried to take a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table, but there was definitely already a three-inch long piece of dog hair in it.  The ice hadn’t even melted yet.....Bucky "liberates" a Chow Chow and brings it home.  This means, in no particular order: special shampoo, dog hair, googling "can dogs eat apples??", more dog hair, and learning to share your boyfriend with the dog.Steve's none too quick on the uptake that it's his dog, too.Inspired by the artwork of silentwalrus





	Three, and Not Just Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silentwalrus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus/gifts).



> I was graciously granted permission by [silentwalrus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/silentwalrus) to share a little something I wrote about their [Daisypuff art](https://silentwalrus1.tumblr.com/post/157841177503/her-name-is-daisypuff-and-she-only-bites-sometimes). Thank you so much for letting me share this little story, and thank you for sharing your artwork with us; we're all truly hashtag blessed. 
> 
> Also inspired by my own dog, (half-chow, half-golden retriever). If the shedding in this story seems excessive, it's likely because you've never owned a Chow before.

Steve returned from a six-day trip to D.C. on a Thursday in February, wrinkled suits crammed in a gym bag slung over his shoulder and Starbucks in hand as a sort of offering for being gone for so very long. He’d nearly frozen his mitts off holding onto the cardboard tray.

The Starbucks ended up on the floor when he was unexpectedly assaulted by a knee-high makeup pouf that looked as though it had been liberally doused in tan powder. The pouf was barking-- a strangely deep sound, really-- which led Steve to the immediate and obvious conclusion that it was a dog, despite the fact that it mostly seemed to be fluffy fur and a smushed-in face. It paced fretfully in front of Steve, staring and barking but ultimately non-threatening, and Steve wasn’t sure if has more embarrassed or annoyed to have dropped Bucky’s drink.

“Oh, baby,” Bucky cooed, rounding the corner into the entryway. Bucky was  _ not _ looking at Steve when he said the word  _ baby _ , but instead the dog. “Daisypuff, it’s just Steve!”

The noise ceased as soon as the dog saw Bucky, and it promptly sat on Bucky’s feet and panted up at Steve with squinty brown eyes that peered out from soft, furry folds in its face. A purple tongue lolled out of its short, jowled muzzle. It looked like it was half-lion, with an unreasonably huge ruff around its neck.

“Did you… get Daisypuff from Thor?” Steve asked, looking between the dog and the Starbucks on the floor. His iced chai latte was splattered with Bucky’s mocha frappucino goop and chocolate whip cream, and it was slowly spreading. It was definitely going to make the wood floors reprehensibly sticky. And yep, that dog’s tongue was definitely still purple.

“What?” Bucky asked, leaning forward over the dog and the spilled Starbucks to press a distracted kiss to Steve’s cheek.

Steve tilted his head at the dog, and the dog panted even more earnestly. “Well, its tongue’s purple.” Asgard, then, was the obvious answer, in Steve’s mind.

Like it weighed nothing, Bucky bent over and scooped the dog up in his arms and held it up in Steve’s face, narrowly avoiding trailing the dog’s fuzzy, curled-over tail through the smashed blended coffee drinks. “Aw, no, Daisypuff’s a Chow Chow, they’ve all got purple tongues.” Bucky’s metal hand swept gently down the dog’s fuzzy belly, and its squinty little eyes disappeared further into its face, apparently in raptures. Most of its fur was fawn-colored, but her its belly and some of its undercoat were a lighter, creamier shade. Bucky’s face was soft, worse than cotton candy, when he settled the dog against his shoulder like a baby.

“She was a bait dog in a fighting ring, Stevie,” Bucky wheedled. “The shelter was going to put her down, and so…”

Steve sighed. “So you adopted her?”

“Well…”

As it turned out, “Daisypuff,” had not been adopted, but rather liberated using Bucky’s not inconsiderable background as a World War II hero and subsequent brainwashed militarization. “They couldn’t legally let me adopt her because she’s bitten people,” Bucky explained, still cuddling the dog, “but they strongly hinted they’d look the other way if she went missing, s’all.”

Steve digested this information and nodded. It was reasonable enough, in his opinion.

“Out of curiosity,” Steve said, keeping an eye on the slowly creeping liquid sprawl at their feet, “why were you at a dog shelter?”

Bucky was blunt. “Wanted a dog,” he shrugged, and the  _ fuckin’ obviously, Steve _   was silent.

Steve considered the dog’s droopy, damp snout where it was pressed into Bucky’s neck, inhaling deeply and snuffling at the waves of Bucky’s clean, loose hair. “Okay,” he said, and went to clean up the Starbucks.

…

The dog didn’t much care about Steve. Not anymore than if Steve had been a potted plant that occasionally moved inconveniently around the apartment, an obstacle to scoot around, walk on, and generally ignore in pursuit of her one true love: Bucky.

In the morning, when Bucky stood at the toilet to piss, the dog plopped her fluffy ass on the tile floor immediately adjacent to the toilet and stood sentry. When Bucky shut himself up in the shower, the dog curled into a small, perfectly round ball on the bathmat.

The dog sat at Bucky’s feet during meals. On Bucky’s lap on the couch while they watched Netflix or fiddled with their tablets, generally cramming herself between Steve and Bucky with as many heavy-pawed steps to Steve’s guts and soft parts as she could manage. When Bucky practiced his yoga, the dog would alternate between spreading out at the head of the mat (so Bucky could pet her when poses permitted) or curled up next to Bucky’s feet when he held standing or lunging poses for inhumanly long periods of times.

They went on long, daily walks (unless it rained; Daisypuff hated the rain), and upon their return, Bucky would show Steve approximately seven or eight hundred photos of Daisypuff at various locales throughout their Brooklyn neighborhood.

On the rare occasions when Bucky left the apartment without her, the dog would watch out the window as Bucky disappeared down the sidewalk, and lay about listlessly until he returned. No amount of cajoling from Steve could entice her to do anything more than nose disinterestedly at her favorite toy, a pair of Bucky’s old gym socks rolled into ball.

And when Bucky would return from his errands, the dog would wriggle with delight, squeezing past Steve to prop her boxy paws up on Bucky’s thighs, preening happily under his returned attention.

The dog would also crawl into bed with them every night. If she wasn’t weaseling her way between their bodies and faces, she was curled up into a rock hard knot where Steve’s feet were supposed to go, forcing him either into the fetal position or to balance his feet at the very furthest edge of the mattress.  

She snored. Like a pig, actually: snorting, and snuffling, and a few flabby wheezes thrown in for good measure. It was louder than 1931, when the entire Barnes family had slept in the living room for the winter to keep down on the heating.

And if, heaven forbid, Steve got up in the middle of the night, the dog would spread out in Steve’s side of the bed, jowly face on his pillow, and legs stretched out every which way, like a small, drunk person. Only Bucky-- by aggressively spooning her-- could entice her to give up a sliver of bed for Steve. She’d snapped at Steve the first and only time he’d tried to nudge her out of bed.

In the morning, the dog would poke her little nose against Bucky’s face and arms and hands, asking for a walk and breakfast, all while wagging her merry, fluffy, curlycue of a tail directly into Steve’s eyes, mouth, and nose. Bucky would groan and grin, playfully smushing up the dog’s face and rubbing at her ears, before rolling out of the bed.  

From the bed, Steve would hear the tap of doggy nails on the kitchen floor, the ping of the fancy organic kibble as it was carefully doled out into the metal dish, and the warm, happy murmur of Bucky’s baby talk. “You want your fishies, precious?” Bucky would ask, and Steve could hear him rummaging in the fridge for the dog’s salmon oil dispenser.

It never failed to make Steve smile when he rolled over in bed and stole Bucky’s abandoned pillow.

…

 

“Christ almighty,” Steve said, cleaning the lint off the dryer screen. It was a handful and a half of fluffy dog fur and a few specks of regular clothing lint.

And everything still needed to be lint rolled, anyway, he discovered, trying to fold a pair of Bucky’s black leggings.

…

 

“You don’t think she gets, yanno, lonely out there?” Bucky asked, mopping up his stomach with Steve’s discarded t-shirt.

Steve thought about the giant basket full of dog toys and the fact that Bucky had turned Animal Planet on for her to watch while “Daddy and Steve had adult time,” and the incontrovertible truth that the dog was up Bucky’s ass way more than Steve ever got to be.

“Sweetheart, I think she’s fine out there,” Steve said, still a little dopey and loose-lipped from the sex. “What kid doesn’t like watchin’ cartoons?”

Steve wasn’t even just humoring Bucky when it said it. He kind of even meant it.

“True,” Bucky agreed, grinning toothily at a sudden memory. “Remember those real cheap tickets we used to get on Saturday mornings?”

…

 

“What is  _ that, _ ” Tony said, recoiling slightly even as he pointed a finger at the lapel of Steve’s suit.

Steve looked down. It was just a small, matted wad of baby-fine dog hair, clinging to the black wool, no bigger than a fly, and the color of wet sand.

“Nothing,” he said, plucking it off his jacket and rolling it between his fingers.  When Tony wasn’t looking, he flicked it into Tony’s partially drained whisky on the rocks before wandering off to talk to other party-goers.

…

 

Tony definitely spat up the ball of dog hair into a potted plant a few minutes later, and Pepper definitely yelled at him.

“Tony,” she hissed discreetly around a flute of champagne. “Be- _ have _ .”

And with that, Steve was able to leave the stuffy party and take the subway back to Brooklyn and Bucky and the dog, whistling the whole way because he had a pretty good story to tell.

…

 

“Daisypuff,” Steve said, feeling mildly emasculated, not because the leash was sparkly purple with a reflective silver stripe up the middle, but rather because he privately thought Daisypuff was a pretty dumb name for a dog that seemed generally serious and stately and apathetic about anything that wasn’t Bucky. The nice AKC book he’d bought had described the Chow as aloof and scowling, which made a lot of sense. “Please go potty.”

The dog just squinted up at him in boredom, wandering back and forth at the end of her leash, sniffing at the concrete with more gravitas than he’d seen from toffs sniffing at expensive glasses of wine.  

_ Steven, _ he could imagine the dog thinking.  _ This would be much easier if my  _ real _ father were here.  Not you.  You have been judged and found wanting. _

“Look, I know you want Bucky to be here,” he explained, and the dog’s face tipped up alertly at the mention of Bucky’s name, and Steve wanted to brain himself with his own shield for even mentioning the B-word, “but he’s got his leave-in conditioner on, and he wants you to stick to your schedule.”

After about seven more excruciating moments of Steve cooling his heels while the dog sniffed first one pebble, and then every other pebble on the block, the entire process was reset by the appearance of another dog across the street.

Daisypuff sprang to attention, immobile and occasionally making a low rumbling sound in her barrel chest, what Bucky called her  _ boof _ . The whole time, she made sure to position herself in front of Steve, as though he weren’t Captain America and couldn’t outrun a greyhound (while carrying her) if he had to. She stared unabashedly the entire (brief) time it took for the spindly greyhound to do its business and retreat into the brownstone behind its opposingly rotund owner. With one final warning  _ boof _ , Daisypuff returned, with surprising nonchalance, to her thorough inspection of the planters and their city-wilted vegetation.

“Why can’t you be like that?” Steve despaired, while the dog sniffed the mulch for the four millionth time. At least New York was nice in the springtime.

Still, it was a little sweet that she would protect him, if a little misguided on her part. Like he’d ever let anything happen to Bucky’s dog.

…

 

“Is she sick?” Steve asked apprehensively, eyeing the large clumps of hair that had somehow started circulating in the corners of the living room in the twelve hours since Steve last vacuumed. While Bucky had proven that he was willing to spare no expense when it came to care for the dog-- three grand for a doggy dentist to brush her teeth?-- there were certain things that even modern medicine couldn’t fix.

Jesus fuck, if anything happened to that fuckin’ dog.

“Sick?” Bucky asked, looking up from his intense perusal of doggy drinking fountains. He’d been comparing two models for nearly thirty minutes, and had developed a thin wrinkle between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s...  Molting.  There’s hair everywhere.”

“Oh, she ain’t sick. Just blowing coat. Got a lot of hair, don’t you, baby?” Bucky addressed the last part to the dog, who was taking up 60% of the couch, not even including where she had her face balanced on Bucky’s knee. She wagged her tail busily when Bucky talked to her, sending up a plume of loose hair. It wafted through the air, cloudlike and dreamy.

Steve wondered if it were possible to buy vacuum bags direct from the factory, or if he were eligible for some sort of Avengers, or even just a basic veteran’s, discount.

…

 

“Jesus, fuck, Buck,” Steve complained. “There’s fucking  _ hair _ stuck  _ inside _ the lube cap.”

Bucky’s face was adorably scrunched up as he pulled the bottle from Steve’s hand to examine the many strands of fine, crimpy chow hair stuck to the inside of the flip top, tacky with lube dribbles.

The dog was waiting outside the bedroom door. Steve knew because he could see the dog’s tail stuffed under the door from where she’d crammed herself as close to the door as possibly after Bucky had regretfully banished her for “just a few minutes.”

“How’s that even possible?” Steve asked. “We keep it in a fuckin’  _ drawer _ .”

…

 

“I’m surprised,” Natasha murmured, which could mean that she wasn’t surprised at all. “I never pictured you as the dog type.” Her garishly purple fingernails tapped her mug of tea in a charmingly/horrifyingly arrhythmic ditty.  

Steve shrugged. “I dunno, Buck wanted her,” he replied, watching Clint and Bucky sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor as they each tried to work combs through Dasiypuff’s frankly ridiculous piles of fluffy, bath-damped fur. Truthfully, the name Daisypuff had made sudden and sickening sense three very expensive orders of vacuum bags ago.

“Seems like it’s done Barnes some good, having something to take care of,” Natasha said, lightly, and Steve hummed his agreement.

Natasha and Steve had enjoyed relaxing cups of tea while Bucky and Clint had wrangled the dog into the bathtub. The splashing and shouting and laughter had reverberated through the bathroom door the whole time, a sweet backdrop to his and Natasha’s more placid conversation. He was pretty sure that Clint had slipped on spilled bathwater at least once, and he was even more certain the drain would be clogged with tufts of fluffy tan hair when he went for his post-run shower in the morning.

“We should do Lucky next,” Bucky said, excited at the prospect. He grinned up at Steve, too, for good measure, his dark, messy hair up in a bun and short hairs curling around his face, likely damp with shaken-off bathwater. He looked beautiful, even splattered in dirty doggy-bath water and covered in damp fur. “Steve,” he announced. “You would not believe how good this shampoo smells.”  

Steve, could in fact, believe it, since it was specially formulated to soothe the chow’s naturally sensitive skin, cost an arm and a leg, and apparently involved oatmeal in some way.

Steve realized Natasha was staring, so he wiped the sappy look off his face and shot her a challenging grin. “Whaddaya say, Tash, does Liho need a bath?”

“My cat is perfectly fine without your dogbreath shampoo, Rogers,” Natasha informed him crisply. “Besides, you’re not a cat person at all, it seems.” It was  amazing, how she managed to be smug and genuinely cheerful all at the same time.

…

 

Steve tried to take a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table, but there was definitely already a three-inch long piece of dog hair in it. The ice hadn’t even melted yet

…

 

Bucky was laid out on the bathroom floor while Steve showered; through the steamy glass, he could see the dog sprawled out beside Bucky.

“She’s been doing real good with Lucky,” Bucky said, talking loudly to be heard clearly over the water. “I think she was a little scared at first. You know when she does that thing where she tries to crawl into my lap?”

Steve lathered up his flannel with the soap Bucky had insisted they buy because it smelled like grapefruit. “Yeah,” he answered. “Like she’s tryin’ to get under your shirt.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replied. If he squinted, Steve could see Bucky’s metal arm slowly petting the dog’s belly. “Clint and are thinkin’ she ready to be socialized a bit more. We were going to try going to that dog park by that bagel place you like.” He said this proudly.  

“That’s good,” Steve agreed. “I bet she misses having dog-friends.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky murmured, more quietly this time.

…

 

The dog  _ glared _ at Sam.

There was no other word for it. The dog’s beady little eyes were affixed on Sam like any sudden movements would be a sign of the impending apocalypse, the reason being that Sam had caused it. Truthfully, dog hadn’t stopped glaring at Sam since she met him a couple of months ago.

“Man, your dog literally  _ hates _ Sam,” Clint said. He was laying on the floor with Lucky and Bucky and Daisypuff; Bucky was using Clint’s stomach as a footrest and they were taking turns tossing segmented mandarin orange slices into each other’s mouths. Unfortunately for the dogs (Lucky’s only eye was trained on each flying piece of orange), neither of them had missed in the past sixteen minutes.

Sam’s face was very carefully controlled when he replied to Clint’s blunt commentary. “Dogs love me,” he insisted stonily. “I babysit my sister’s dog  _ all. The. Time. _ ”

Privately, Steve agreed with Clint, but outwardly, he tried to soften things up for Sam. “No, I just don’t think Daisypuff loves anybody but Bucky, yanno? She tolerates me and Clint at best. The rest of you...” Steve shrugged. “She just doesn’t care.”

Sam, at that moment, made the horrific blunder of trying to step over Bucky to get to the chicken wing dip. Daisypuff crowded her little dog-body between Bucky and Sam, barking and herding Sam backwards.

“Aw, Puff-Puff,” Bucky cooed, quickly sitting up in a fluid, and frankly, sexually gratifying display of abdominal strength. “You hate Sammy, don’t you?” Bucky cupped and squashed the dog’s face lovingly in his big hands. “Who’s my good baby?  Who’s a good girl?”

While Clint was cracking up at Sam’s outraged face, Lucky ate a half-chewed piece of orange out of his mouth, and Natasha gagged into her taco dip.

Steve just smiled and clapped Sam on the back.

…

 

They usually went to the dog park two or three times a week. Bucky liked to go at 9:30 in the morning, since the retired crowd always showed up about then with their dogs in tow.

Bucky liked to sit with a fancy coffee and talk with everybody. He knew all the dogs and people by name, and they all knew him as James. Both of them kept their hats on and Steve always wore his big hipster glasses, so they hadn’t been made yet, or everyone was too polite to mention the fact that Captain America’s metal-armed boyfriend had a grumpy dog.

Steve liked to sit on the long bench at the far side of the park: it had the best light, and he could sketch the dogs and they ran back and forth after the tennis balls Bucky would throw, the same beautiful arc and aim he’d had since they were kids playing baseball in an abandoned lot.

…

 

“Are you fucking--  what the fuck,” Steve mumbled blandly, fishing a strand of dog hair out of his overpriced beer.

Bucky looked up distractedly from where he’d wrapped a bandana around Daisypuff’s neck. “Do you think you like this one, or the camo print?”

“That one,” he answered, nodding his head at the red, white, and blue bandanna she wore. He hid his smile with another sip of beer.

…

 

“Okay, first things first, Capsicle and Robocop, who told you that dogs were allowed?  Secondly, why is its tongue purple?  If it’s sick, I don’t want it in here.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “Pepper said we could, it’s also  _ my _ birthday, you know.” He lifted a hand and waved at the woman in question, looking resplendent and comfortable in a linen sundress. “Besides,” he said, “you’re a genius.  You should know that the Chow Chow is noted for its purple tongue. It’s one of the oldest and most dignified dog breeds on the planet.” He looked down at the dog, sitting nonchalantly between Steve and Bucky’s legs. It was easy to be knowingly superior about the purple-tongue thing in retrospect.  “Isn’t that right, Daisypuff?”

Tony mouthed “ _ Daisypuff, _ ” before seeming to shake off his flabbergasted curiosity. “I’m a  _ super _ -genius, thank you, but dogs are not my area of specialization.  They’ve yet to prove effective to Stark Industries beyond being a cute family type-thing in our more saccharine commercials.”

Steve just shrugged, still smiling, and linked his hand with Bucky’s around the sparkly purple dog leash.

…

 

Later on, when the Fourth of July fireworks began streaking up into the sky, Dasiypuff weaseled her nervously panting body between Bucky and Steve on the lounger. She laid her head on Bucky’s thigh, and she calmed down as Steve ran his hand, again and again, slow and steady, over the soft fur of her back.

…

Daisypuff did not like it when anyone other than Bucky picked her up, as a general rule. The exception, of course, being when Steve hefted her solid little body (the daisypuff part applied to her hair  _ only _ ) and settled her in the specially crafted basket affixed to the front of Bucky’s vintage step-through bicycle. She wouldn’t try to wriggle out of his grip at all, just pant happily as he settled her-- paying careful attention to her tail-- into her comfortable little carriage.

“Aww, look at that,” Bucky mumbled, petting the dog’s head and fussing with the little doggy beach towel stashed in there. “Say thank you to Stevie!”

And what do you know, she sort of looked at him thankfully when he straddled his own bike.

“Alright!  You ready for the beach, Daisy-girl?  Stevie?” Bucky asked, adjusting his wide-brimmed hat over his spill of wavy brown hair. He looked good in a tank top, his left shoulder gleaming in the summer sun and freckles dotting the right, just like the sunspots Steve had kissed when they were young nobodies in a one-room tenement flat.

Steve smiled.  “Sure thing, Buck.”

…

 

“Can you google if dogs are allowed to have apples?” Bucky requested. “There’s a place to go apple picking not far from the compound.”

Bucky was driving because Stevehated to look at the cows while making the long, stupid drive to the upstate Avengers facility. Something about cows made him unspeakably nervous, and Bucky was the only person he was man enough to admit that to.

Steve fiddled with his phone, carefully avoiding looking at the black and white splotches he could still see out of the corners of his eye.

“Yes, but not the seeds,” he said, after a few moments of tapping and scrolling. “Pumpkin’s good for ‘em, too,” he followed up.

Daisypuff, as it turned out, loved apples and being pulled along in the flatbed cart while Steve picked the apples and Bucky held the bag. She also preened under the attention of a group of middle aged women who couldn’t get over how “adorable” and “well-behaved” she was.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, shy under the bill of his Mets cap and left hand tucked in his pocket. “She’s a rescue and had been in a dogfighting ring, so she was really afraid of everyone but me an’ my partner, but we’ve been taking her to the dog park and on all sorts of walks, and she’s worlds better.”

The women swooned.

“Good girl,” Steve crooned, breaking off a chunk of apple and inspecting it for seeds before he let her gently take it from his fingers.

…

 

While upstate, Fury and Daisypuff got into a prolonged staring competition; it ended only in a draw because Maria Hill walked into the room and everybody learned that Maria had a deeply ingrained fear of dogs.

…

 

“It’s just a couple of days,” Bucky told the dog, while packing up his bag. He mostly just seemed to be attempting to reassure himself, since the dog hadn’t yet cottoned onto the fact that Bucky would be going on a three-day excursion and leaving Daisypuff to Steve’s care.

“Do you think--” Bucky began, but Steve cut him off with a short, firm kiss.

Steve pulled back, taking ahold of Bucky’s elbows and sweeping his thumbs over Bucky’s arms. “You’re going on a short intel mission to Poland, sweetheart. You’re going to be holed up in a safehouse and you can’t take her on a quinjet. Besides, Tasha would murder you.”

“I know,” Bucky muttered angrily, pulling out of Steve’s grip to begin aggressively balling up his socks. “I just…” He broke off, sighing.

Steve sprawled out on the bed, and the dog crawled up there after him, curling up into his side and resting her little face on his bicep. He patted her belly and combed his fingers through her fluff. “What, you think Puff won’t have any fun without you?  I’m offended, Buck,” he teased.

Framing it that way seemed to take a little pressure off, because Bucky’s shoulders lowered a fraction and his face softened as looked down at the two of them. “She’s my baby, Rogers,” he stressed, shooting Steve a stern look. “If anything happens to her, you’re dead.”

“Hear that baby-dog? Your daddy’s threatening me. He thinks you and me won’t have a lick of fun. We’ll show him, won’t we?” Steve smushed up the dog’s face and she snuffled his armpit cheerfully in return, tail thumping on the bed. “We’ll have so much fun. No rules, because daddy’s gone, and daddy’s  _ boring _ and I’m fun.”

Bucky scoffed, stealing a few of Steve’s t-shirts from the dresser. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Stevie.”

…

 

For the first six hours after Bucky was gone, Daisypuff laid on top of Steve on the couch and they watched old movies on Filmstruck. The dog only moved to huff miserably and peer intently at the hallways that led to the bedroom, the bathroom, or the front door.

Finally, after the dog’s eighty millionth sigh, Steve caved. “Okay, fine, I’m boring.  Let’s go somewhere, Puff-Puff.”

…

 

Emboldened by their successful solo trip to the dog park, Steve decided to bring Daisypuff into the office the next day. He was only going to be doing paperwork, and he had a couch in his office where she could snooze.  

“Want to go to work?” Steve asked, patting away the last of the shaving cream from his face. He looked at the dog in the mirror.

She was still curled up on the bathmat from Steve’s shower; only the far corner was damp; he had to step carefully upon getting out to avoid stomping on her tail. She looked up excitedly at the word “go,” her ears perking right up.

If Captain America couldn’t bring his boyfriend’s dog into SHIELD, who could? He wasn’t about to leave her home alone all day.

…

 

No less than six agents stopped him on his way to his office; they all wanted to pet her and she sat, perfectly relaxed and utterly disinterested, every single time. 

She tried to yank his arm off, though, when she caught sight of Clint across the bullpen.

…

 

She ignored Sam completely when he came to Steve’s office for lunch. 

It was an improvement, at least.

…

 

On the way home from SHIELD, they stopped at a nearby ice cream parlor. They sat at a table on the sidewalk, and Dasiypuff ate her small, doggy-safe ice cream while Steve enjoyed a sundae with rainbow sprinkles.

While they were both eating, he took off his hat and crouched down on the pavement next to the dog, the top of her muzzle still flecked with vanilla ice cream.

“Smile for daddy!” he said, holding up his phone to take a picture.

Satisfied with the dopy picture-- Daisypuff’s long purple tongue dangling out the side of her face and a stupid grin on his own face-- he sent if off to Bucky, knowing he’d get it sometime tomorrow when he was on his way home.  

_ We miss you _ , he wrote.  _ But I’m definitely not boring. Just got her ice cream from that place :-) _

…

 

Later that evening, Clint texted Steve a link to one of those gossip sites.  _ it u _ , the message read.

When he clicked on the link, it was a handful of pictures of him at the ice cream parlor with Daisypuff.  _ Captain America enjoys a doggy date with man’s best friend! _ the headline read.

The article was mostly fluff, it seemed, speculation about the dog’s name: Truth, Justice, Independence, Flag, Liberty, America, etc., etc. The last line gave him a little pause.

_ Whatever the adorable pooch’s name, it seems Captain America is a top notch doggy-daddy.  Just look at that happy face! _

Steve scrolled down to the final picture. It was him, laughing at Daisypuff as she looked up at him, a smear of ice cream on her face and little face rolls relaxed.

He saved the photo to his phone and forwarded the article to Bucky.  _ Your baby’s famous now, _ he said.

…

 

The next afternoon, Steve’s phone buzzed and he unlocked it to read a rapid fire string of text messages from Bucky.

_!!!!!!  _ and then a couple of strings of mostly indecipherable emojis.  _ eta two hours _ , the last message read.

The two of them were laid out on the bed, Daisypuff on Bucky’s pillow and Steve reading from Bucky’s latest sci-fi purchase. Bucky was still a sucker for a spaceship to Mars, and Steve was feeling nostalgic.

“Daddy’s gonna be home soon,” Steve informed the dog, looking over at her smushed nose and squinty eyes. 

Daisypuff perked up, tilting her serious little face at his with interest. Her tail thumped at the bedspread.

“Daddy’s coming home,” he repeated, even more sing-song this time, and the dog scooted her face onto Steve’s pillow, snuffling in his ear.

…

 

“Daddy’s almost home,” Steve said as he chucked the last of the beans in the crock pot for soup. The dog was laid out watchfully on the kitchen floor, tail thumping excitedly every time Steve moved to toss her a baby carrot from the ziplock baggy on the counter.

The dog army crawled forward, belly to the ground and her most innocent expression on her face. She nosed at his ankle.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grinning. “Here ya go.”

She caught the carrot neatly, chomping happily as she followed him into the bathroom.

…

 

The sound of a key in the lock had the dog ricocheting off the couch like a shot and skittering over the hardwood towards the door. Steve, only slightly more restrained, followed after her.

“Daisypuff!” Bucky cried. “Daddy’s so happy to see you!” The dog was practically flying with excitement, jumping up to try to get closer to Bucky. Bucky scooped her up with his left arm like a sack of potatoes and leaned forward to hug Steve with his other arm. She was smushed (gently) between their chests, and Steve got a mouthful of Daisypuff’s neck fur when he tried to give Bucky a kiss.

He just laughed, spitting out dog fur. He tried again, and this time he got Bucky’s smiling mouth. “Missed you two,” Bucky said. There was a strand of dog fluff already stuck in his facial scruff.

“We missed you too, Buck.”

The dog snuffled Bucky’s hair in agreement.

…

 

“Wasn’t that bad,” Bucky confided quietly to Steve later that night, while all three of them were tucked into bed,  the dog sandwiched between them. “I didn’t know if i was actually ready to go on a mission, but… I’m glad I was there to help Nat. I like doing intel, I think.”

Steve linked his fingers with Bucky’s where they were resting on  the dog’s side.  

“’M proud of you, Buck,” Steve said.

Bucky, of course, deflected with a soft, sleepy sound. “I’m proud of you, too, Stevie. Can’t believe you took such good care of our baby while I was gone.”

“She’s a good girl,” Steve said. “We had loads of fun and everything, if you can believe it.”

Bucky sniffed. “Only because I have photographic evidence.  The internet loves you two.”

Steve grinned into the dark, and Bucky grinned back, too, just a faint glimmer. Steve picked his head up and leaned over the dog, stealing one more good night kiss from his best guy.

“Love you, Buck,” Steve said, laying his head back down on the pillow.

The dog immediately leaned over to snuffle at Steve’s face, sleepy eyes blinking as she nosed at the short hairs above his ears.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mumbled, his and Bucky’s hands glancing off each other as they both moved to smooth their hands down her back. “Love you, too, Puff.”

**Author's Note:**

> I probably could've written about a million words about Steve & Bucky & Daisypuff, BUT! I reeled it in. You're welcome, internet.
> 
> A brief list of Daisypuff adventures I chose to leave out:  
> \- That time Daisypuff chewed up $100 worth of books while alone for FIVE! MINUTES!  
> \- That time Steve dropped a sausage from the hot frying pan and the dog swallowed it whole, and then threw it up, still whole, on the kitchen floor five minutes later  
> \- Accidentally peeing in Natasha's office at SHIELD because someone snuck up on her, SAM.  
> \- Drive-in movie adventures are a saga unto themselves, okay?  
> \- That time with the Watermelon (the less said, the better).
> 
> Also, not beta'd because I'm an irresponsible individual. Feel free to tell me if I've missed something!
> 
> Title from "3rd Planet," by Modest Mouse, because I've never not been a sap.


End file.
